by Hyland, Tara
It was also all she could afford.
The agent made that plain when Caitlin told him her budget. Maybe she did want a place in St. Germain or the Marais. Who didn’t? But Belleville was all he could offer her.
An hour later, standing outside the address he’d scrawled down, Caitlin could see why she was getting it cheap. Hidden within the maze of narrow, cobblestoned streets off Boulevard de la Villette, Place Ste. Marthe was made up of two rows of faded turn-of-the-century townhouses. It might have been quaint, except most of the buildings were either boarded up or covered in graffiti.
Inside wasn’t much better. Five flights of narrow stairs led Caitlin up to the top floor. The agent had optimistically described the tiny attic as bijou. It was one small room crammed with a broken sofabed, a two-burner stove, and an elderly fridge. The bathroom smelled of mildew, and there was a ring of grime around the claw-footed tub. Caitlin couldn’t help thinking of William’s sumptuous penthouse on the exclusive Rue St. Honoré. She could be living there in luxury.
Except she didn’t want luxury. She wanted freedom and independence. And that’s what this represented.
Her mind made up, she turned to the round-shouldered landlady and beamed. “C’est parfait,” she declared.
The old woman’s eyes widened, but she quickly covered her surprise. If la belle irlandaise wanted to overpay for this dump, then she wasn’t going to stop her. She made Caitlin give her the deposit in cash, then hurried out before the girl changed her mind.
Caitlin opened her backpack and looked for somewhere to hang her clothes. There was a tiny wooden wardrobe and a somewhat unsteady-looking chest of drawers. Luckily she hadn’t much in the way of belongings: Doc Marten boots, All Stars, three pairs of jeans, and a bunch of T-shirts.
As Caitlin began to unpack, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. There was no trace of the naïve fifteen-year-old girl who had arrived at Aldringham three years ago. Her look was dark and edgy now: her pale skin and black hair—chopped elfin-short—ideally suited to the nihilistic grunge craze she embraced. At Greycourt, where the look had been decidedly preppy, she had stood out. Walking through the school’s hundred-year-old corridors, wearing her standard uniform of faded jeans and the T-shirt of some obscure Indie band, she had set herself apart as the rebel, the loner.
Greycourt. Thank God that was over. She had kept the promise she’d made to William that Christmas Eve and stayed to finish school. But she’d done so on her terms. She’d gone back with no interest in making friends or being accepted, no longer caring if people gossiped about her. And somehow, once she’d stopped caring, everything had gotten easier. George had still tried to stay friendly with her, but even there Caitlin had kept a distance. She was a nice enough girl, but Caitlin had known there was no point getting close—she had no intention of keeping in touch with anyone who’d known her these past three years.
Now, at eighteen, she was finally old enough to strike out on her own. And Paris was her opportunity to do that. Ironic that it was William who had originally put the idea of coming here in her head. Nearly a year ago now. Back then, like all the other final-year pupils, she had had thoughts of the future uppermost in her mind. Art was the only subject she made any effort in. A course in fashion and design had seemed like the obvious choice.
She’d spent the autumn break filling in application forms. Central St. Martins in London was at the top of her list. With its reputation for eccentricity, it was a great place to study fashion. She probably would have ended up going there, too, if William hadn’t spotted what she was doing.
“I have some excellent contacts at St. Martins,” he’d told her. “Let me know when your interview is, and I can put in a word for you.”
In that moment, St. Martins had suddenly lost all its appeal for Caitlin.
When Perkins had dropped her back at school the following Sunday evening, her first stop was the careers room. She’d found the folder on art and design courses and started checking out the best places to study fashion—outside of London. Within half an hour, she’d been leafing through a prospectus for the École de la Chambre Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne—the famous college of fashion in Paris.
It hadn’t taken long for Caitlin to decide that the Chambre Syndicale would be the ideal place for her to learn. Its two-year program in fashion design and technique was world-renowned and had been the training ground for so many great designers—Yves Saint Laurent, Issey Miyake, Valentino . . .
That night, she had filled out the ten-page application form. She’d gone to her favorite art teacher, Mr. Wright, for a reference. Since those first few weeks at Greycourt, he’d been her greatest supporter, and he’d known all about her dream of attending St. Martins. When he’d seen that she was applying to the Chambre Syndicale instead, he’d made no comment on her sudden change of heart—although he had wanted to know why she was submitting the application as Caitlin O’Dwyer.
“The Melville name’s too well known in the fashion world,” she had told him and anyone else who asked. But the truth was, she didn’t see herself as a Melville, and she never would. Paris was her chance to start over as O’Dwyer.
She hadn’t told William that she was applying to the Chambre Syndicale. She didn’t want to risk him interfering. Instead, she had used one of her private study days to sneak over to Paris for the interview. Her French was just about good enough to get her through. A panel of chic Parisians had quizzed her for nearly two hours on her ideas and influences. They’d reviewed her portfolio at length, probing and critiquing her work. She’d emerged from the ordeal exhausted and discouraged. Places were limited and, after the grilling she had received, she didn’t rate her chances highly. But then a few weeks later she’d received the call telling her she was in. William hadn’t been happy. But in the end there wasn’t much he could do about it. Her decision was made.
School had officially finished ten days earlier. She hadn’t bothered hanging around for the Graduation Ball. She’d made a brief trip back to Valleymount—her annual pilgrimage to her mother’s grave—although she hadn’t gone to see Nuala. Contact between them had dwindled over the past three years, reduced to exchanging Christmas and birthday cards. Caitlin guessed she was mostly to blame. She had just found it too painful to hear about everything going on back there, when she wasn’t part of it anymore.
She had arrived back from Ireland late Friday afternoon. She’d spent the weekend at Aldringham packing and then booked herself on the Eurostar Monday morning.
Now, her unpacking finished, she walked over to the large window that dominated the room. From there, she could see across the rooftops, down to Canal St. Martin. In that moment she forgot William, Greycourt, and everything else. She was finally in Paris. And that was all that mattered.
Once Caitlin had sorted out somewhere to live, the next item on her list was to find a job. She’d made up her mind months ago that she wasn’t going to take a penny from William. Fortunately, after two years of receiving commendations in the Saatchi competition, she had finally won first place this year, “the only time in the school’s history that a pupil has received such an honor,” Mr. Wright had announced proudly in assembly. Apart from a lavish awards ceremony in London, the prize included a generous scholarship which would cover the cost of her course. Now she just needed to find the money to pay the rent and eat.
So the next morning she got up early and hit the streets to look for work. It also gave her a chance to check out the area. It wasn’t anywhere near as bad as everyone had warned. Spread along the hills of northeastern Paris, in the twentieth arrondissement, Belleville might be one of the shabbier corners of Paris, but it was also colorfully atmospheric. Originally a working-class quarter, its mazelike streets had served as home to generations of impoverished Parisians and immigrants. As Caitlin walked along, she could see its history in every inch of the place: there were Chinese noodle bars and Jewish bookshops; Arab men smoking sheesha pipes in shop doorways; the cries of North
African street vendors selling plantain and sweet potatoes. It was as far away from the wide boulevards and luxury boutiques of central Paris as you could get. Maybe living here wouldn’t be so bad after all . . .
But by late afternoon, her optimism was beginning to fade. It seemed she’d tried every shop, bar, and café from Belleville to Canal St. Martin, but with no success. Either they’d already hired staff for the summer, or they looked down their noses at her heavily accented French. Sticky from the July heat, she decided to head back along Boulevard de la Villette toward her apartment.
Along the way, she picked up a copy of Carrières et Emplois at a tabac, and found a low-key café-bar where she could read. Inside, she ordered an espresso. She didn’t especially like the strong coffee, but it was the cheapest item on the menu. As the waiter hurried off to get her drink, Caitlin spread the paper across the table and turned to the section for menial jobs. She was busy reading through the ads when the waiter returned. He set the cup down in front of her, but instead of taking the money Caitlin had laid out, he hovered for a moment. Caitlin looked up to see what the problem was. She found a tall, thin, rather effeminate-looking man of around forty staring back at her.
“Can I help you with something?” Caitlin asked.
The man smiled at the stilted French. “Non. But maybe I can help you.” He nodded down at the paper. “You’re looking for work?”
“That’s right.”
“One of the waitresses didn’t turn up for her shift today. The owner’s desperate. If you can start now, the job will be yours.”
Caitlin gulped down the hot coffee and stood up.
“And my French won’t be a problem with the owner?” she asked the waiter as she followed him through to the kitchen.
“No, he won’t mind.”
Caitlin frowned. “How can you be so sure?”
He turned and grinned at her. “Because you’re looking at him.”
He introduced himself as Alain Chabot and over another coffee told Caitlin his life story. A graduate of l’École des Beaux Arts, Paris’s Fine Arts school, he had been a well-respected sculptor until early-onset osteoporosis had ended his career. Rather than mourning his loss, he had looked around for a new opportunity—and a year earlier had invested his life’s savings in Café des Amis.
It had been a smart move. Alain had spotted an important trend—Belleville was changing. The area that had always been seen as harsh and uninviting had begun to attract a new breed of migrants: Paris’s young, cool, bohemian crowd. Artists, writers, and musicians were flooding the area, drawn there by the cheap rents, just as Caitlin had been. And they were rapidly transforming Belleville into the city’s newest hotspot for nightlife and creativity. Disused warehouses were being converted into cutting-edge galleries. The ethnic restaurants and stores that lined Belleville’s thoroughfares were now being joined by trendy café-bars, featuring hip new bands and DJs. And Café des Amis was leading the way.
“Even I’m surprised at how successful it’s been,” Alain told Caitlin proudly.
Caitlin looked around doubtfully. It was nearly six now, and the café was pretty much empty.
Alain caught the look and grinned. “Trust me. In a few hours you won’t recognize the place. And you’ll be wishing that it was as quiet as it is now.”
He was right. That night was a baptism of fire for Caitlin. By midnight, the place was filled with smoke, noise, and an achingly hip crowd. Most had come to listen to the DJ. The room was jammed wall-to-wall with dancers, moving to the thumping bass, warming up to go clubbing later. Table service had been abandoned a few hours earlier, and Caitlin stood behind the dimly lit bar with five others, as the drunken clientele shouted their requests over the chatter and the music. She messed up more orders than she got right, but luckily Alain didn’t seem to mind. As soon as he’d found out that she was a design student, he seemed to have decided she would fit right in at Café des Amis.
“Working here will improve your French in no time!” he’d joked, as she struggled to remember a list of six different drinks.
As she was the most junior member of the team, it was her job to ensure they had enough glasses behind the bar. Whenever they looked to be in danger of running out, she would dash outside to the huge sidewalk, where cool young things dressed in black lounged at tables drinking red wine and pastis, smoking and flirting, take a few deep breaths of air, collect whatever empties she could, and then hurry back inside to wash them before getting behind the bar again.
By the end of the night she was exhausted.
“Don’t worry,” Alain said, as he handed her a wad of francs. “It’ll get easier. I promise.”
It did. As the summer wore on, she found herself gradually settling into the routine. It was hard work, and the tips weren’t particularly good. But the other waitresses were nice enough. Plus, Alain always seemed to be short-staffed, so she could pick up as many extra shifts as she wanted before the term started.
When she wasn’t working, she spent time exploring the city. She bought croissants for breakfast in the nearby boulangerie; drank café au lait in the famous Les Deux Magots; and spent hours wandering through the pretty streets of the Marais.
During her third week there, William called to check how she was.
“I’m going to be in Paris next Thursday,” he said, at the end of their short conversation. “We’ll go out to dinner then. I’ll have a table booked at La Tour d’Argent.”
“Sure,” she replied dutifully.
But the following week when he called, she let the answer machine pick up.
13
_________
As summer turned to autumn, it came time for Caitlin to start at the Chambre Syndicale. On the first day of the term, she turned up half an hour early. She was still the last student to arrive. It was a stark reminder that this was the preeminent fashion school in the world. No one was here for an easy ride.
The school was located at 45, rue Saint-Roch, between the famous rue de Rivoli, which housed the Louvre and the Tuileries, and avenue de l’Opéra. The exterior of the building had all the old world charm and elegance that characterized the area. Inside, classes were held in a large, airy workroom, with the obligatory stark white walls, vast windows, and fluorescent lights. The space was dominated by huge cutting tables, which came complete with scissors, sewing machines, and dressmaking dummies.
There were forty-five students in the year, split evenly into three more manageable groups. Caitlin’s fourteen fellow classmates had already taken their places by the time she found the room. Most of the students were dressed extravagantly, showing off their style on the first day. In faded jeans and a T-shirt, she looked comparatively nondescript. Maybe people found it odd that someone who wanted to be a designer could be so uninterested in her own appearance. But she didn’t see the paradox. To her, designing was about creating a piece of artwork from cloth and thread, not slavishly following fashion magazines. The way she looked had nothing to do with her talent.
The class was made up of all different nationalities—Japanese, American, and Australian, as well as native French. English seemed to be the common language, and a few tentative conversations had been struck up, more to assess the competition than as any real attempt at friendship.
“Parsons practically begged me to come,” a pushy New Yorker called Brooke bragged, referring to the famous school of design located in the heart of Greenwich Village. “But I just couldn’t turn down Paris.”
A camp young man from Hong Kong joined in, name-dropping a major designer with whom he’d interned over the summer. “They’ve pretty much guaranteed me a job once I graduate,” he boasted.
Caitlin tuned out. They’d find out who had talent soon enough—talking about it wasn’t going to do any good. Fortunately, right then the course director, Madame Tessier, arrived, cutting off any further conversation. Madame was unnaturally thin, fabulously chic, and utterly terrifying. Her skin was stretched tightly over her face, making i
t impossible to guess her age. And her clothes were classic black and navy.
“A woman of a certain age should dress comme il faut,” she told the class after five minutes. “Maybe it is the fashion to show off your midriff, but it doesn’t mean anyone wants to see mine, n’est-ce pas?”
There were tentative giggles, which she stifled with a look. She had a discernible limp—rumored to be from a childhood case of polio—and an elegantly carved walking stick with a jeweled handle that she liked to use to point at unsuspecting students. She also seemed to enjoy banging it hard on the floor to emphasize her point.
“You all come ’ere wanting to be the next Yves Saint Laurent,” she said in her opening speech, pounding the stick into the floor. The new students were already beginning to realize why there were so many dents in the floorboards. “But inevitably some of you will end up designing—and I ’esitate to use that word—for the ’igh street. Decide now that it will not be you.”
There was a collective nod from the class.
“There are two parts to the course,” Madame continued. “Creatively, you will be encouraged to push your mind out of the box that it ’as grown comfortable in. Then technically, you will learn ’ow to transform a few sheets of paper into garments for the catwalk.”
The students hung on her every word. She had headed up the design team at Donna Karan in New York before coming back to her homeland to teach this course, and everyone knew that if they wanted to become the best, then she was the person to listen to. She also had phenomenal connections in the industry and would make sure her favorites were noticed by the major haute couture houses. She was the person they needed to impress—although Caitlin had a feeling that wasn’t going to be an easy task.
In fact, over the next few weeks, Caitlin discovered just how hard it was going to be. The course was far more difficult than she had envisioned. The Chambre Syndicale was renowned for its traditional methods and approach to teaching, but she was still surprised by the rigidity of the class structure.
